


In Real Life

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: Castiel's Hope [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Choking, Dancing, Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, FBI Agent Dean Winchester, FBI Agent Sam Winchester, Faked Suicide, Fluff, Swearing, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:29:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't realise it, but Elle is gearing up to make a leap.  In fact, she makes several.  In the hands of demons and devils, she throws her lot in with two fortunate brothers and hopes for the best.  Maybe, if she doesn't worry, there'll be nothing to worry about.  Maybe it'll all turn out easier than she thinks.  Except for the part where she kills herself - that's probably going to be a bit rough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You wanna, like, not go on a date?

The next day, Elizabeth is digging around in one of the kitchen bench cupboards, collecting containers for a freezer stash. Sam and Dean appear over the counter, heads hovering.  
“Hi,” Sam greets.  
“Heya,” Elle replies, “How’s it going.”  
“Uh, are you busy Friday?” he asks.  
Elle stops rummaging and looks at him. “ _Yes_... _Duh_... I have dinner with the girls, and then book club, and I was going to go to that new discotheque at our local metropolis.”  
“Yeah, okay,” Sam rolls his eyes, “I’m sorry I asked.”  
“Good. Thanks for the gentle reminder about my oh so raging social life. _Where is the fucking lid?!_ ”  
Dean has a better go at it: “We think we could use your help.”

Elle thinks as she grabs a substitute container, feeling like she’s about to hear a dumb idea. When she stands and faces the brothers, her expression is full of suspicion.  
Now neither of them is sure of how to sell this.  
Sam tries again. “There’s a job a few cities over. We think a demon is pulling off a round of deaths and we know he’s going to be at a big benefit Friday night. And we were thinking it would be really helpful to have someone on the floor while we, you know, work out of sight.”  Elle has no idea how much he's playing it down.  
“You want me to do surveillance?” she asks, half stating it.  
“Mmmm, more like decoy,” Sam says, trying to shrug it off.

Elle is surprised. She looks at them both as they shuffle a bit, wincing at the truth. She quickly shifts into incredulous.  
“You know, there’s a forest out there,” she says, pointing to the acreage attached to the bunker. “It’s got a perimeter of skeletons from whatever magical force field protects it.  It’s a blank patch on Google maps, but you won’t let me go for a quick jog outdoors to protect ‘my safety’. I’ve got a freaking vitamin D deficiency because of your paranoia and now you want me to be _bait_?!”  
Dean tries to calm her down. “Baby-”  
“Fucken…” she warns with a pointed finger.  
“Elle…” he corrects, “the thing is… nobody knows you. At the moment you’re a stranger to nearly everyone.”  
“Except for random demons that spot me in remote bars.”  
“That was a shit-load of bad luck. Do you know how many demons there are who know me like that _and_ are topside? I can’t even begin to make the odds on it.”  
“But there will definitely be demons there, right? Are you sure they’re all strangers?” she argues, and Dean doesn’t have an answer. “And I’ll be in plain sight, apparently visible enough to take someone’s attention. No, this, according to everything I’ve been told, is a bad idea. You’re talking about me possibly going from anonymous and non-existent to ‘on the run’. There’s a big difference.”

Dean and Sam are stumped. They don’t know how to rework her logic into something sensible. Sam tries to reassure Elle as best he can. “Dean’s right Elle. Cass knew who you were but he said that demon took ages to place you. It’s really very unlikely anyone there will link you two, especially if they don’t see you together.”  
“You want me to go there alone?”  
“We’ll start you off; we’ll be on site, one of us in the next room with eyes on you the whole time. Your job is just to keep someone from leaving…”  
Elle stands there, hands on hips. “Have you really exhausted all the other options?” she checks.  
“We’ve taken a long time with this one, Elle. Lots of research but the opportunity for action is small. He moves around a lot, it’s hard to get a look at his operation. This is the kind of event where we can know where he is for a few hours and get some access.”  
Sam skipped the part about how deadly this character was – a rogue Leviathan that was trying to establish himself as another leader of the race.

“Please don’t ask me to pick-pocket, or slip drugs, or anything,” she pleads, quickly realising she’s accepted the job, and puts her hand over her eyes. “Mother _fucker_.”  
The brothers relax a little. “You know, you might even enjoy it,” Sam offers.  
“No Sam, I doubt I will. I haven’t had a lifetime of being desensitised to danger,” she says and slams the cupboard door before turning away.  
Sam and Dean drop the cheer and look at each other, both of them conscious that she’s right and has every right to be afraid.  
“Elle,” Dean says, and moves around to be next to her and offers the only shitty incentive he’s got. “You’re right. You’re completely on the money. We are putting you in danger. But, you know, we’re ultimately trying to do good here and-”  
“Ugh, Dean,” she stops him with a hand on his chest, his own absently coming up to her arm. “Don’t worry about it… I don’t expect to be a secret forever. I trust Cass, but with all his digging around, someone will figure it out. I would’ve liked more time to get ready. You know, get fitter, or learn something. But if I’m going to be vulnerable anyway, I may as well be doing helpful stuff.”

Dean holds her hand and wonders how they struck out with someone this good. Mostly though, he’s thinking of her sacrifice.  
“That’s exactly what I was going to say,” he lies. He kisses her, hugs her close, and makes her as much of a promise as is safe. “You are more important than the job. We will drop it if it gets too close, and we can try again if you freak out. Okay? Keep us in the loop.”  
“Okay,” she says at his shoulder. “I don’t have much to wear though. Benefits are usually black tie, yeah?”  
Sam pulls out he ticket they scored. “It says ‘cocktail’.”  
“I definitely don’t have that,” she confirms.  
“Then we can shop later today,” Dean decides.  
“Dressing room montage!!” Elle yells, arms straight up.  
“No,” Dean rules that out, remembering the last one painfully. He points at her. “It’s not your freaking coming out party. Tell me your size and I’ll buy it for you.”  
“Aaaw, Daaad!” Elle lazily kicks him in the foot, pouting. “You’ve sucked half the fun out of it already.”  
“Hey, I can pick a good dress,” he assures.  
“Just remember I need to be able to eat, sit down and not get arrested, okay? And please, make me look like a woman, not a girl.”  
“Oh, don't you worry,” he pulls her up by the waist and growls in her ear, “you won't know whether to keep it on or rip it off.”


	2. Introducing Elizabeth

On Friday morning Dean makes his own way to the city, via one of those large department stores that’s mostly a women’s section. The attendants swoon over his effort to get his lovely wife a 10-year anniversary gift. It’s barely quicker than, and pretty much as awkward as, sitting through Charlie’s efforts those months ago, though he does remember it with a smile.

Sam and Elle head straight there and check into the motel. Dean didn’t need to convince Sam about getting two rooms. He arrives about 90 minutes before they need to leave. Sam has their gear – cocktail suits, weapons, some emergency hoodoo ingredients – laid out on the bed and is standing over them doing a mental check. Elle is reading her tablet, showered and hair towel dried.  
“Hey,” he says, coming in, and instantly pulls up upon seeing Elle. “You don’t look ready!”  
“You have the dress.”  
“But your hair and” he gestures at her face “…stuff! They don’t look done.”  
“Because _you have the dress_. Hair and make-up aren’t generic.”  
Dean smacks his hand on his thigh, exasperated.  
Elle’s almost offended. “Shit dude, calm ya farm. We have, like, over an hour before we need to leave.”  
“Oh an hour, she says! That’s, what? An eyebrow and some lipstick!” he wails, laying the dress bag over the chair. “Shoes are in the bottom.”

He heads off to shower and Elle hops up to check out his choice. She lays the bag on the bed, over the suits, and undoes the zip. Upon pulling aside the bag open, she gasps noisily, hand to her throat and reaches out to grab Sam’s chest, almost collecting a nipple. “Sam. It’s. Gorgeous.”  
“Ow, yeah, that’s great,” grabbing her hand away from his skin.  
“No. Sam. I haven’t seen a dress this nice before. Not in real life… I’d get married in this dress.”  
“Oh, well, that’s nice,” he shrugs.  
“Fuck I hope it fits me.”  
She pulls out the shoes, and finds they’re a little big, but her inserts will be a neat fix and give some ease for a rare night in high heels.  
Dean emerges from the bathroom, conscious of giving Elle as much time as possible, but walks into a moving wall of kissing thanks. Elle pulls on his neck, waist, shoulders, waist and finishes with a loud “mwah!”. Dean is puffed. “Nice dress,” she says.  
“No problem,” he frowns down at her, though a little chuffed.

She grabs the bag and her stockings and gets in there to put it all together. The dress is a silver-beaded Gatsby-style sheath over dusty peach bias-cut silk. Where the beads slide off her curves, the silk hugs. Elle’s cleavage is definitely present, but not heaving, and the curving hemline helps lengthen what is actually quite a short skirt. She’s given herself a fat braid behind one ear and wrapped it into a soft bun against the base of her head, some small sparkly pins by the sides. A pair of drop earrings, some light silver and a little charcoal around the eyes, a little shimmering lipstick… well, only a manicure could top it off.

In 35 minutes she appears, back first, saying “Someone zip me up?”  
Sam is closest and unwisely goes to help. Dean slaps him up the side the head as he strides past to do the job.  
“Thank god,” she breathes, as she turns around, feeling the fit, “My plan B was more of an F. Thank you for not getting platform high heels.”  
She turns around, chunkily and stands as though she’s getting a spray tan – arms out, legs shoulder-width apart. “Whaddya reckon?” she asks apprehensively. They don’t move, so Elle tries again, and chucks some polish on it. She pulls her legs together, slightly bending one, lays her hands on her hip and a thigh and turns a little. “Sorry, I mean: How’s it goin’ boys? Wink wink.” She’s hamming it up, but they aren’t laughing.  
“Ho… ly…” Dean tries, and runs his hand though his hair.  
“Think I can distract someone?” Elle asks, unsure.  
They both nod. Then Dean smacks Sam on the arm, “Say something dude! Don’t be awkward!”  
“Uh, um…” Sam stumbles, then smiles nicely, “You _could_ get married in that dress.”  
Dean looks at him: _What the hell? That’s too much!_  
“What?!” Sam asks, “She looks beautiful!”  
Dean smacks Sam again and she points “Don’t hurt him. I’ll have to kiss it better.” Sam gives him a lazy shove in the shoulder, grinning: _Go on, make her kiss something better_. Dean sulks.  
“And thanks Sam!” Elle beams. “I feel very pretty.” In this moment, she really is having fun.

Elle nicks into the bathroom and pops her lipstick into Dean’s trouser pocket. “Pretty is a deficient word for you Elle,” Dean drawls, and she blushes from the chest north.  
“Well, I have a whole list of naughty words for how good you two look. I’m glad I don’t have to wave you goodbye.”  
“Oh go on,” Sam teases, “just one curse? Wouldn’t be you without it?”  
“Ha! Well, bugger me, Sam. You could be a fucken Chippendale,” Elle replies, sticking her tongue out.  
Sam tries not to feel awkward and Elle laughs at the effort.  
Dean steps into Elle, taking her hand, the other at her waist and he goes to kiss her but she dodges him with an “uh uh, you’ll smear my face.” So he ducks down to her neck.  
“You’re wearing perfume,” he moans.  
“Because we’re _elegant_!” she explains.  
“Well, we’re ready, we should go,” Sam calls from by the doorway.  
“Fuuuuuck,” he groans. “Wasted. You’ll be wasted on all those assholes.”


	3. Correction: Introducing 'Jennifer'

The drive to the benefit isn’t long, and none of them talk much. Once inside, Elle tries to see the whole room, commit it to memory, with absolutely no idea if she needs to or even what for. The room is as large as two basketball courts, at least, with sets of double doors down both sides and a stage at the far end. A small dance floor is surrounded by circular tables, but there isn’t a band and the music is not encouraging anyone. There’s a bar floating in the middle of the crowd, a mix of pretty hair, shiny dresses and suits. Staff drift around with trays of drinks and canapés and camera flashes go off amongst it all.  
What Elle doesn’t like is the decorating. There are great long widths of navy fabric hanging from the tall ceiling, eight down each side of the room. They’re about 4-feet wide and do an excellent job of discretely hiding the entrances into the room. They’re also great at hiding people.

The three of them head up a corridor beside the room and find a meeting room that opens into the back of the benefit, next to the stage. Sam eyes off the crowd through the cracked door, looking for their guy. Dean warms Elle’s arms with his hands in the unheated space.  
“Got any Dutch courage?” she asks.  
“Sure,” he mutters, pulling out his flask.  
“Should I be me?” she asks, pumping her knees back and forth to warm up. “Should I do an accent?”  
“Can you do accents? It’ll be worse if you slip it up.”  
“British is probably safest,” she says, affecting a solid west-end poshness. “Americans usually think I’m English anyway, so I think if I slip they’re unlikely to notice.”  
Dean’s impressed she’s maintaining it.  
“A whole year amongst the Brits, sweetheart. Not for nought,” and she smiles a little, trying to loosen up. “Bear with me while I keep it up too, okay?”

“There he is,” Sam says, and waves her over to peek through the door. “That tall guy at this end of the bar.”  
“Edward Norton’s lookalike?” she asks.  
“Y-heah,” Sam smiles. “Elle, you just have to talk to him. That’s it. You don’t have to flirt or touch him.”  
“Yeah, I will,” she says, watching the way he’s greeting a woman. “He’s a sleeze. He’ll touch me.”  
“Then be a classy flirt, not a tease,” Dean suggests.  
“You’ll have to teach me the difference some time… What if I have to choose between leaving the room with him and losing contact…?”  
“You lose him,” Dean answers, shaking his head, “Don’t be alone with him.”  
“Shit. Don’t scare me or anything.”  
“Don’t worry, you’re safe out there. He’s running for office, he won’t lose face,” Sam reckons.  
“Should I avoid the photography?”  
“I don’t think you need to worry about, but skip it if you can. Don’t let him wonder why though.”  
“So, no but yes... Okay then. Are you chaps ready?” she asks, pressing her lips together, smoothing her dress.  
“Yeah,” Dean says with his best honest smile, “You’re gonna do great.” Elle smiles hopefully as if to say really? “Baby, the way you look, you’re gunna slay him before we do. Go make me jealous.” And his gives her a long, good-luck kiss that they both reluctantly end.

Elle walks down the side of the main room, behind the hanging sashes, and enters the area from beside an open door. She heads straight for the bar, a few feet away from the target, and pretends to look for someone. She has no idea how much anyone is paying attention, so she decides to play it all up as real as possible.  
Elle makes as if the ‘friend’ she is searching for is nowhere in sight, so waits for the bar staff to attend her. None are forthcoming. She’s going completely unnoticed. So she subtly leans from the waist, just a little, tilting over the bar to see what drinks are tucked under there and in her reach. She’s practically presenting her arse in the process.  
“Fuck me,” mutters Dean from their hiding spot, “don’t be too good.”  
“Good luck watching that,” Sam says, smacking Dean on the back. “I’m going to get started. I’ll call if I need you.”  
“I told Elle I’d be here the whole time,” Dean reminds him.  
“I think she’ll be okay in a crowd, Dean.”  
“Yeah, she should be…”

Elle sees a lovely dark whisky under the ledge, but suspects she should try something less regular, just to help keep her on her toes. She spots a bottle of gin and peeks around to see if the bartenders are noticing.  
“You need a hand there?” asks a deep voice. Elle drops down, ‘busted’ and smiles sheepishly.  
“I can give you a leg up if you need,” he offers smoothly, not too closely. Elle is a little taken at the way he presents himself, not as slimy as she first thought.  
“Aha, I seem to be wearing my invisible dress tonight,” she jokes, inwardly wincing at how provocative that line could be.  
“No, it’s definitely there,” he remarks, “and it’s marvellous.” He indicates to a bartender for attention, who comes directly.  
“Uh, what have you got that’s pink?” Elle asks in her best plumb form.  
“Be right back ma’am,” the bartenders says, and nicks off to put something together.  
“So, you’re British?” he asks, getting closer.  
“Yes!”  
“What brings you to this little get up?” and he sips, smiling with his eyes.  
“I lobby schools for reform, from the bottom up.”  
“For the British system?”  
“Ah, no, actually. The Scandinavian system, via Canada. It’s all a bit complicated.” She smiles. In truth, she would have dreams for education in the US, but now’s not the time to get into it. She just hopes she sounds rather knowledgeable.  
“Excellent,” he smiles an empty smile in return. _He doesn’t care about education_ , she notes, _thank god. Just be an asshole, dude, okay?_

A drink with two layers of pink arrives, sugared around the rim, with a proud “ma’am” from the bartender.  
“My goodness! Should I wear a special hat?! This is rather extravagant!” she says, and takes a sip. It’s sour and sickly sweet. Luckily the maker has gone by the time she has to hide a twisted face behind her hand.  
“Not so nice?” he asks.  
“My little sister would love it,” Elle comments, and he laughs dutifully, letting his eyes eat her up for a moment. For about half a second, he looks voracious, and Elle has to keep herself from shivering.  
Dean watches from his vantage point, clenching his jaw all the while. He and Sam haven’t gotten close to this creep – this perfect monster – but here he is, watching someone so precious right in his arms’ reach. Convincing Elle she would be safe was the same as convincing himself. Dean does his best not to think of what this creature had done already…

The target offers his hand saying “Anthony Farrington.”  
“Jennifer Wright,” she accepts, trying to make good eye contact.  
“A pleasure,” he says, and holds her hand a beat too long. He gestures to a nearby table; it’s tall and waist height, but quite small, barely two feet wide. She follows, conscious of how he herds her.  
“Are you here with anyone tonight?” he asks.  
“No, I-” Elle begins but is interrupted by someone who obviously knows him and he turns to them when Elle stops.  
“Mr Farrington,” the man says cautiously.  
Mr Farrington doesn’t’ say anything, but looks at the man in acknowledgment. His face is neither interested nor impressed.  
“They’ll be ready for you in thirty minutes,” he blabs, becoming more nervous.  
“As planned,” he says.  
“Yes, as planned,” the man smiles.  
“Why are you interrupting me with plans that are going to plan?” Mr Farrington asks caustically. The man goes a shade paler, and simply runs away.  
“Do you have to deal with assistants, Jennifer?” Mr Farrington asks Elle.  
“No, my budget doesn’t cover help,” she answers.  
“Count yourself lucky. So often it is not helpful,” he says, apparently terribly put out. “So, you were saying you’re unaccompanied tonight?”  
“Well, I thought I was meeting a friend, but she isn’t here yet. She has a baby so she might be held up,” Elle pulls out her phone, pretending to check messages, “No, nothing.”  
“Can I keep you company till she arrives?” he asks with a heavy gaze. “You should have someone to who’ll worry about you if you’re gone.”  
Elle tries not to be nauseous, and speaks a little louder than she needs to in the effort. “That would be lovely, Anthony! What a gentleman!” and accidentally sounds maternal. _Crap, that tone ain’t sexy_.  
He doesn’t think it’s motherly, but does recognise the fear. Unfortunately for Elle, he feeds off it.

Dean feels his phone vibrate and reads Sam’s note “Got pages, stuck behind goons. 4 +”  
He takes a hard look at Elle. _She’s not cruising, not that confident but she’s holding her own. Pretty damn good for a first time._ Dean sends her a silent prayer, and runs off to wrap up the raid as quick as they can.

“So, what is everyone ready for? What’s in 30 minutes?” Elle asks, hoping he’ll fill the time talking about himself.  
“Well, I’d really like to represent my people, and have them represented by someone who cares…” he spiels off. It doesn’t seem the least suitable for him, a complete mismatch of dialogue to presentation, but he says it flawlessly, with rehearsed emphasis. Elle nods and looks at him with dedication to the task, but just over his shoulder is the door at the end of the room and she’s mostly occupied with imagining someone behind it, someone who’ll run out for her at a moment’s warning. She hopes Dean can see her looking at him, through that black strip of gap, with her mind’s eye.

Another person comes to greet Mr Farrington, a large white man with a belly of privilege. He approaches from over Elle’s left shoulder, the table being to her right, and she feels his hand graze her waist as he cuts in.  
“Tony!! Good man!” a hand is offered to Farrington, “Great to see you here! Who is this gorgeous thing you’re occupying?”  
Hands shaken and attention turned, Farrington follows the rules. “John, this is Jennifer Wright. She works in education. Jennifer, this is John Stafford. He runs a local television station.”  
“And news website! Can’t skip the clickbait,” he says offering his hand to her. “A pleasure to merely see you, Jennifer.”  
“Jennifer is from England,” Farrington adds, watching this buffoon coolly.  
“Oh, well, well,” he reacts, “Charmed, I’m sure.” And he kisses her hand in a very unfortunate display of cultural faux pas.  
“Likewise,” Elle smiles and does her best to smother any trace of disgust, astonishment or amusement. _Think of pity… pity, road kill and cold porridge._ Stafford proceeds to hover over her so closely that she can’t help but lean back, not least to avoid his pungent odour.  
Farrington, however, is having none of this. He spots a waiter beyond Elle and cuts between them both with his gesturing. When the tray arrives, he reaches across, collecting a glass of sparkling wine for Elle and a beer for himself, forcing Stafford to shift over, and away, from her side. While Farrington doesn’t touch her, he does turn his body toward Elle, keeping her more in his personal space than social space. After a sip, pretending to listen to Stafford’s banter, he places his glass on the table in front of Elle and leers at her neck, her décolletage and makes a solid go of smiling for the eye contact. Elle holds her own with a measured and polite smile, hoping it’s coy at best, demure at worst.

The next few minutes are filled with tense, almost entertaining repartee between Farrington and Stafford. Barely bothering to hide their one-up-man-ship, they compare successes and acquisitions, describing how they conquered whatever obstacle they’d met. The music begins to grow louder, suggesting people start dancing, and their speaking matches the volume, ramping up their competitiveness. Farrington’s arm slowly and casually makes its way around her, his hand resting on her hip. Elle smiles mildly, although otherwise rigid, and watches each one as they speak, but also catches the action around them. She’s beginning to spot people – men mostly – who glance over at Farrington from time to time. They chat and drink, and look at other people too, but they look at him with intensity. She can’t tell if they’re protective or competitive.

Soon, Elle’s mind drifts back to her company and she realises it might be wrapping up. Stafford has offered Farrington some advertising, and is arguing, again apparently, that he really does have the demographic Farrington wants. Elle has been roundly ignored for some time.  
“John, I appreciate the offer again, I really do. You’re a capital man for thinking of me, but at the end of the day I can’t be seen to be taking favours. The competition is just too tight.” Farrington smiles and puts his hands in his pockets. He has said is final word.  
Stafford is frustrated. “Well, you only shoot yourself in the foot, Tony. You can lead a horse to champagne but you can’t make him drink, hey?” He downs the last slosh of beer and puts the glass on the table with a frowning swallow, thoroughly shitty at the botched sale.  
“You take care now, ya hear?” Stafford signs off. Farrington still smiles, and nods slightly, not even returning the compliment. Stafford turns to Elle, “And Jennifer, if you ever want to experience some _true_ home grown American fun, you just call. I would adore showing you the ropes.” He winks and Elle smiles back, “You’re so kind.”  
Stafford leaves and Farrington turns to face Elle again.  
“Well, he’s full of energy isn’t he?” she asks, trying to bring down the tension.  
“The fat parasite presumes to liken himself to champagne… He’s lucky I haven’t had him wiped out,” Farrington mutters.  
Elle decides to use the non-lethal version of this comment: “He’s also running?”  
“Oh, no... virtually. He likes politicians who are puppets,” he covers.  
“Ah, I see.”

The dance floor was uncrowded, but busy with action. Farrington coldly considers the room but turns on the warmth when he speaks next. “Jennifer, I need to get ready for my presentation soon, but I would love a dance with you. Do you think we could fit one in before I go?”  
Elle is caught, completely not expecting a dance to be something this character is interested in. Her half hour is up but she’s worried that she hasn’t seen Sam or Dean – no signal, not even a distant nod. She desperately doesn’t’ want to be that close to Farrington.  
“Sure,” she smiles. Surely they wouldn’t leave me out here unless they had to. I should keep going, she reasons, hoping the choice will protect someone at least. She lets Farrington shepherd her and hopes her heels will give enough height for her to spot a brother the moment one appears. They’ll make no appearance, though, and Farrington never makes it to the dance floor.


	4. Hello Pet

Sam and Dean are sweating, having fought and beheaded four goons and rolled their bodies out of the hallway and into Farrington’s hosting room. Fortunately, this corner of the complex was occupied by only goons, all of them dealt with so far, but shuffling dead weight is still a two man task. A bag of heads is hiding behind the door and they haul the second body out of the building and into the dumpster. They have no idea of how long their luck last.  
They’re both desperate to get the least amount of work done as soon as possible. For every passing second that they can’t be sure Elizabeth is safe, they imagine how she’s not.

Meanwhile, Elle has been rescued by a handsome stranger. A man her height, with very short and dark receding hair and a 4 o’clock shadow, has walked himself into their path. He wears a dinner suit and a cocky smile.  
Elle sees he means to talk to Farrington, so pulls up a bit before him, quickly feeling her escort behind her. “What are you doing here?” Farrington asks, almost gnashing his teeth. Elle looks down at the intruder’s chest, instantly nervous at such a ferocious reaction.  
“Now, now Anthony, you’ll upset your lovely date,” he chirps in a rough English inflection. Elle feels sweat pushing out her antiperspirant. _Oh shit, he’s going to pick apart my accent!_  
Farrington takes his time thinking of how to respond to the meeting. “You realise you’re outnumbered. Whatever your pathetic mission is, Crowley, it’s suicide.”  
 _Crowley! Crowley is a name Sam’s used. Who is he to Farrington?…_  
“Oh come now, Tony. I’m not looking for fireworks, or even a song and dance. I’m here merely out of the goodness of my heart,” he replies casually.  
“Really? You’ve come to advise me of something terribly important, you bottom feeding cretin?” Farrington spits. He doesn’t even notice the people around him glancing at behaviour so out of place.  
“Insults already? My word, Love,” he says to Elle,” did he move this fast with you?” She reacts as neutrally as possibly, desperately trying to figure whether he is a friend or foe right now. She’s heading toward the latter.  
“No, Farrington. Or whoever you’re pretending to be. This is a mercy dash. I’m afraid you’ve got a fly in the ointment. Well, two really.” Upon that news, Elle manages to keep her eyes fixed, giving nothing away. Crowley continues, “You should probably get back to the cottage and see who’s been sitting in your chair, eating your porridge.” Crowley delivers the news with half a smile, almost swaying with smugness of his gossip.

At that Farrington walks away, directly toward a door. Elle turns to watch him go and holds her breath as he’s stopped by staff; apparently whatever was going to be ready for him is ready. But he still leaves the room and Elle, completely intending to inform Dean, doesn’t know which way to go.  
Crowley leans in on her shoulder, too close for any comfort, and murmurs, “Shall we get that dance in my sweet?”  
Elle’s heart drops as Crowley firmly takes her arm, above the elbow, and leads her to the dance floor. She can’t see any sign of anything at any door. She can’t signal to Dean to do anything. She can’t even save herself.

Crowley turns to collect her in a closed hold, one hand firmly on her back, and leads her for slow turn around the floor for a very average song. Elle is relieved at the few inches of space he’s allowed her. She looks over his shoulder, frozen in thought, trying to recalculate where she’s at.  
“I’m going to cut to the chase here, Love: _You_ ,” he nods, squinting, “look familiar. Have we not met before?”  
Elle decides to keep on with the front, in case Farrington should return. “I don’t think so,” she says, “have you been in America long?”  
“Aaaah! A fellow Briton!” Crowley is delighted, “God Save the Queen, tally ho, have a geezer, and all that.”  
Elle reminds herself that she shouldn’t be too blasé: _That was fucking uncomfortable for a normal person caught in an abnormal situation, I should be stressed._ So she doesn’t speak.  
“Corgi got your tongue?” he prompts. But Elle doesn’t answer. She finds herself looking at him with a face that says _No, I don’t want to talk to you at all_.  
“Oh, Pet,” he says, and hugs her close, temple to temple. “You’ll come to know me soon enough.”  
Elle shivers at the comment, but also notices how comfortable he feels. He’s soft, with a calming lead, and there is something easy about his chat and his look. _Fuck. Fuck! There’s no way this guy is safe. Anyone ‘unsafe’ is deadly, you dickhead, figure it out. Fucking focus_.

She can feel his stubble against her ear as he speaks. “What is that fragrance? You’re practically delicious with it.” He pulls back to look at her, clearly wanting an answer.  
“It’s j’adore,” she says quietly. He smells of whisky and cologne and dry cleaning fragrance.  
“Well, it’s scrumptious,” he says, pulling her close again. “What’s that scent in the background? It’s not quite home, it’s like… it’s…” and he stops dancing. Without letting her move away, he pushes her held arm back, twisting her torso, and turning her face to him. He peers at her, almost amazed, and studies her face. Elle looks at him passively, her mind suspended, but can’t read what he’s thinking, even when he clenches his jaw. He pulls her pack and looks over her shoulder again. His grip is now vice-like.  
“We’re going to go somewhere more private, my petal,” Crowley instructs, his voice cold and cut with annoyance, “and you’re not going to make a scene. Raise an eyebrow and I’ll burn it off. Do you understand?” Elle nods in reply.  
Crowley collects her elbow, gripping the bone, and leads her off the dance floor towards the very room Sam and Dean set up as base camp. She feels her chest flood with relief at the prospect of seeing them and lets her legs move as Crowley wishes, calmly and directly.

They burst through the door and Elle fully expects to see someone standing there, ready. But there isn’t. Crowley keeps hold of her arm as he carefully closes the door behind himself, checking for any prying eyes. Elle looks at the tables and watches for someone to come out of hiding. She runs her eyes around the dark doorways, the corners, and searches for shadows around the table tops leaning against the walls. Crowley lets her go. The lights came on and nothing is revealed. Absolutely nothing.  
Elle is alone and her stomach drops in dread.

“So… A Winchester gets to have a love,” Crowley says in disgust.  
Elle turns around and tries to get some distance in her steps. He walks towards her and she finds herself on the back foot, retreating.  
“I always found the whole ‘true love’ thing so…” he gestures, searching for the word. “patronising. Surely people can just, you know, choose monogamy!” He stops walking and so does Elle. She has no idea what to do or how to play this. Silence feels the safest option. _Although that shouldn’t be too hard; he certainly likes the chatter of his own voice_.  
“But then I suppose it’s never straight forward with the ever-cursed Winchesters is it? You realise, sweetheart,” he offers melodramatically, “nothing’s ever easy with them. They always take the hard road, always the martyrs, always with the doom and gloom and the dying.” He looks for her reaction, wondering if he’s revealing anything. But she’s a statue, avoiding eye contact. He smiles, feigning indifference.  
“Ah well, maybe that’s why you’re a match, eh? You’ve got that foolish kamikaze gene too?”

Elle’s avoiding panic by staring at the door and willing a friend to appear at that moment.  
Crowley snaps with irritation. “How _rude_ is it… to ignore your present company?!” Elle looks at him as plainly as possible. “You better come clean right now, Love. What’s your game? Tell me before I snap your pretty neck,” he yells. “ _Who are you?_ ”.  
“Elizabeth,” she says without an accent.  
“And how do you know the Winchesters?” he says, too calmly.  
“I work for them.”  
“Work for them!” he exclaims. “As what? A decoy?!”  
“I work as a housekeeper.”  
“Oh spare me! This is your ruse? You’re a housekeeper?” he asks, clearly unimpressed by the ordinariness of their ‘cover’. “How long have you been ‘housekeeping’?”  
“About 6 weeks,” she admits.

“Wait,” Crowley says, pointing at her, beginning to walk again. Elle bumps into a table behind her and, having nowhere else to go turns her retreat towards a wall, the door to the benefit now on her left. “What’s that accent? Are you… Are you _Australian_?” he asks, apparently repulsed.  
Elle’s face, against her wishes, flinches in defiance. _Yeah, what of it?_ she thinks.  
“Blimey, they’re going in with convict scum now?” he wonders aloud.  
By now the wall is only a few feet behind her, but Elle isn’t feeling the fear she had before. As time goes on it seems more and more likely that Dean or Sam will rescue her. She lets herself give a tsk of annoyance.  
“Oh what,” Crowley asks, “think we’re upper class now do we?”  
“Compared to who? You weren’t worth a spot on the boat,” she says, “and probably wouldn’t have survived the trip.” Crowley smiles in response.  
“I ended up ruling hell, Love; I think I would’ve fared alright.”  
“Thick as thieves?”  
“As they say.”  
“I’m sure they were tickled to follow your mighty shadow,” she says, taking a risky stab at his height. Fortunately, he revels in the bait.

He steps closer and properly takes her in. “It’s Dean, isn’t it,” he ventures, wondering if she has a raw nerve for him yet. “You’re far too smart for him – Sam’s likely more your type – but I can tell you’ve gotten wet for Squirrel. I can smell it on you.”  
“You must be a special man, to know whatever that smells like... Not quite special enough, though?” After years of angry 14-year-olds trying to get a rise out of her, she’s quick to spot the moment when she should disengage from a taunting match, but sometimes the material is just too juicy. 

So Crowley tries a different tack, one she hasn’t met in a long time. His arm reaches forward and she instinctively steps back, wary and unsure of where to look. As she retreats again he steps forward, his focus shifting to her neck, but before she hits the wall she knocks his hand away in a hopeful act of defence. With his other hand, Crowley slams into her throat, her chest banging into the wall, his fingers full of neck. He glowers as he squeezes.

Elle feels Crowley’s fingertips press into the muscle by her spine. Her pulse pushes past his thumb. He sneers at her, showing his teeth as he slowly leans, and Elle’s ears begin to feel fat, her lips tingling. She grabs his wrist and tries to lever it away by pressing her thumb into his knuckles and pulling, but he doesn’t give a millimetre. While her breathing is pushed back into her nose, hissing through the remaining gap, she stares at him and hope’s he can read her expression. She’s trying for _what is your goddam problem?_ , but soon her eyes are closed and she can’t even hear the applause for the local politician greeting the throng next door.

“Crowley!”  
He looks at the hallway door, unsurprised to see the brothers arriving. He goes to hold up a finger, expecting to stay them with his leverage, but doesn’t get a chance. Dean strides over, fuming at the spectacle of Crowley squeezing the life out of Elizabeth. In the action Sam calls to Dean to stop, but it makes no difference: Dean grabs Crowley by the jacket and punches him squarely in the gut.


	5. Hit him again

Upon impact, Crowley lets go of Elle reluctantly, yanking her forward as he gives in to the punch. Dean stands back, a hand behind him towards her, and waits for Crowley’s next move. He knows it’s reckless and stupid to attack him that way and prepares himself for punishment. Elle lets Dean’s figure completely obscure her view of Crowley.  
“Dean!” Crowley breathes, “My God man! The passion! The vitality! Yyyyes my boy it is good to see fire in you!” He shakes himself off. “My word, I haven’t felt a hit like that in years. That mark is doing you wonders,” he remarks, nodding at Dean’s arm. Crowley stretches his neck and licks the inside of his cheek, champing at the bit for something visceral. “C’mon then,” he offers, hands up and ready.

Dean doesn’t bite and doesn’t speak. He just wants Crowley to have never seen Elizabeth and walk away. He says, as steadily as he can manage, “I won’t fight you Crowley.”  
“Oh c’mon! Just once to the mattress. I’ll even pretend I’m human for, like… 15 seconds,” he grins.  
“That’s about all you could take,” Dean mutters.  
Crowley is pissed. He fakes a move at Dean, who reacts slightly, but rejects the tease. It take everything he’s got to resist his instinct and suppress the rage.  
“Two for flinching?” Crowley tries, but Sam pulls out a gun.  
“Back off Crowley,” he says, cocking the trigger, “or I’ll pin you with a devil’s trap and Farrington’s thugs can find you.”

Polite laughter echoes into the room. The timbre of Farrington’s voice rolls about the walls. Crowley relaxes, slightly cheesed. “Well, you disappoint me boys. Not only do you keep this gorgeous thing a secret, you don’t even trust me to look after her!”  
“Is that what you were doing?” Sam asks.  
“I was… removing an eyelash,” he shrugs. “She is a peach though. Very… sweet.” And he looks right at Dean in a direct dare.  
Elle places her hand on Dean’s back to calm him. “He’s guessing,” she says softly, stepping out a little.  
“Oh, she’s going to be so good for you Dean. Imaging the ripping gap she’ll leave when she’s gone.”  
Dean glares at the wall, trying to think of something to say that would shut the bastard down.  
“You should know, sweetheart, when it comes to choosing between you and Sam, he’ll always go with the brother,” Crowley warns.  
Elle doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d pick Sam over you too.”  
“A ha ha. Take my word, Lizzy,” he continues, apparently delivering a home truth. “No matter how long you’re together, he will always choose that moose over anyone else. Blood is thicker than whatever you’ve got, love.”  
“Of course he would,” she says, annoyed at his presumption. “They’re brothers. I’m just a random bystander.”

Dean and Crowley both look at her. Crowley with annoyance, for himself and her. Why does it irritate him so much that she wouldn’t make Dean step up for her? It’s true love for fuck’s sake!  
But Dean can’t reconcile the hurt he feels. Or is it pity. He doesn’t want Elle to think she comes second to anyone, but he’s never thought of having to choose and doesn’t truly know what he’d do.

“Do we need to stay?” Elle asks Dean with a hand on his arm.  
“No,” Dean says, his eyes back on Crowley. He has a lot to say to this asshole, but it’s a strange encounter. Words can wait.  
A long applause comes from the main hall. The speech seems to be over.  
Sam moves a table beside them so they can go along the wall and not walk past Crowley. He keeps his aim at Crowley’s head. Dean makes Elle goes first and she doesn’t slow or turn when Crowley calls at her “Til next time, pet! You were just lovely!” Sam backs out as Dean waits for him at the door, holding Elle’s hand in the corridor. As soon as the latch closes they run. Up the corridor, past the black splatters and stains, over a kitchen floor streaked with darkness, and out the back exit. Sam pauses at each door to check for following goons, or Crowley. Dean and Elle run past some dumpsters and directly to Dean’s car across the drive.

“You,” a seething voice begins, “were very, very good.” Elle skids to a stop and turns to find Farrington between her and the building, almost towering.  
Dean doubles back to get between Farrington and Elle, but the leviathan steps up to her and collects her chin. He pulls her up by the jaw while leaning down for closeness. Dean freezes with too much at stake.  
“How did I not spot you as a player?” he says into her face. “I was going to be so good to you tonight… with the dancing and the spa. So much easier to clean up afterward.” Elle grabs his wrist and arm to take her weight off his hold. His breath reeks of ash and rotting flesh.

Someone behind him clears his throat and Farrington shakes with the frustration of being interrupted by another bumbling minion at the wrong time, squeezing her bone even more.  
Farrington straightens before he speaks. “The speech is finished! What else-”  
And suddenly, a wet slipping sound whips past Elle’s face, blackness falls onto her hands and Farrington’s head tips off his neck. His body collapses at her feet and Sam’s silhouette is there, shielding her from the floodlight.  
“You okay?” Sam asks.  
“Mmm hmm,” is all Elle musters. Sam kicks the head aside a little. Dean steps in front of her, arm around, and speaks calmly. “You should get in the car, ‘kay? We’ll clean this up.”

Elle lets herself be told and climbs into the backseat. With the floodlight shining on her sparkling lap, she watches the brothers haul the body into a dumpster and steal a liner from one of the smaller bins. Sam puts Farrington’s head in the bag and ties a knot, chucking it into the trunk. Dean kicks over the stain on the gravel and has a good look for any cameras or faces. They both climb in the car, Dean saying “You should lay down Elle, and keep out of sight.”  
So she does. _I wonder what I’m thinking?_ she thinks.

They drive calmly out of the complex and back towards the hotel. Once on the main road, Elle sits up.  
“You okay Elle?” Dean asks. She’s quiet. “Elle? Elizabeth? Can you tell me if you’re okay?” He’s considering pulling over and getting into the back with her. Sam has turned around so he can look at her properly. She’s wiped the black of her hands with a towel. “That was a levia-”  
“No no,” she says, hand raised, voice raspy and bruised, “I don’t need to know yet. Just let me…”  
The boys wait, Dean’s eyes on the rear vision mirror way too much.  
“So… I drank with a monster and danced with a… Crowley said he was the king of hell?”  
“Yes, he’s a demon,” Sam clarifies.  
“Danced with a demon, was almost choked to death and saw a monster killed… okaaay. Okay. Yup. Well… could be worse. I think dancing with the monster would’ve been rather gross.”  
The boys continue waiting, gauging her for shock and general freaking out. Dean is getting more and more angry at himself for allowing something like this to happen.

“Why was he so emotional?” Elle asked.  
“Who Crowley?” Sam checked, “He was emotional with you?”  
“Almost jealous.”  
“Uuuuh, we might have to have a think about that,” Sam says, unsure of what to tell her.  
“Okeydokey… hey, can I pick some music?” Elle asks naively.  
Sam’s eyes travel over to Dean, extremely curious but a teeny bit worried about what he’s going to say…  
“… it’s broken.” Dean answers. Sam almost rolls his eyes.  
“Okay, well, I’m going to listen to some music. Celebrate not being dead.” And she lies down with her player to pick something to fit her mood.

“You ass,” Sam mutters.  
“I know… I froze!” Dean admits. “I don’t know what she likes! What if it’s crap?”  
“You think everything but your four bands is crap.”  
“It is!”  
The front seat is quiet while Elle listens to the shuffle, bashing through unsuitable offerings.  
“That seemed easy,” Sam asks, “considering how hard it’s been to reach him in the past.”  
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “A third wheel helped, I s'pose.  ...Thanks for the chopping. I know we had plans, but really, that was a good solution.”  
“Thanks. Sure felt like it.”  
“And what the fuck was with Crowley?”  
“Yeah, what was he even doing there? How pathetic was-”  
“Okay,” Elle interrupts, “I’m feeling lucky. If something good comes up, I’m probably going to sing, just so you know.” The boys silently wince into the darkness. “I’m not _A Singer_ , as such, but I can sing in tune. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt more than, you know, a dance with the devil.”  
“Okay Hun, whatever you need,” Dean sighs, gritting his teeth through a carbon copy of the perfect guy.

She skips a few songs and after a pause they hear her murmur an “Mm! yeah,” before she beats out the beginning of the next song. She grunts along with it, impassioned, and they brace themselves for whatever painful tune is coming, Dean wringing the wheel.  
“Li-vin' ea-sy, Li-vin' free” Dean and Sam both grin, for slightly different reasons, and Dean nods, thanking fuck. “Season ticket on a one way ride. Askin' nothin', leave me be, takin' everythin' in my stride...”  
Dean joins in and Sam smiles along, slightly pained. Elle sings at him, grandly gesticulating with the lyrics. She grabs at his jacket, imploring him to reciprocate, and by the chorus, he’s given in. They all bash it out, leaving nothing behind, and as soon as the second verse starts Elle drags down the headphones.

“Let’s go dancing,” she demands.  
“No, no, that’s a bad idea,” Dean says, warm but stern.  
“Why?” Elle asks.  
“You’re probably in shock. Dancing, in a bar or nightclub, amongst strangers, it won’t make you feel better. It’ll probably make you feel worse. You’ll be flinching at all sorts of crap. No.” Dean’s quite determined.  
“How do you know this isn’t my way of coming down? Doing normal shit, celebrating life, yadda yadda.”  
“It’s not normal.” He’s imagining a tipsy and teary, hysterical Elle in the corner of a crowded room.  
“Dance with me when we get home?” she asks them both, compromising.  
“Sure,” Sam agrees, wanting to give her something at least. “But we each get to pick a song, ok?”  
“Ugh, fine,” she concedes, “I _suppose_ you killed things tonight…”  
“Thank you.”  
“I wore heels though. I get two in a row.”

Elle flicks through for the next song and pats Sam through the intro, the phrase quickly familiar but he can’t quite pick it. She alternates the rhythm across seats and shoulders. Dean’s shakes his head and he’s damn tempted to give in and head to the nearest bar. “Rising up! Back on the street,” she sings, “did my time, took my chan-ces!”


	6. Foot-in-Mouth Disease

Back at their motel room Elle docks her player and it runs through a selection of easy songs. No one makes any requests. They eat and tell their stories and don’t even get around to dancing. For the first time Sam or Dean can recall in months, they have fun over their job. Describing Stafford, the fights, and re-enacting all the leering becomes the most entertaining thing any of them have seen for weeks. Elle’s buzzing with the success of not losing her shit or dying, even though she still feels nauseous at the memory of Farrington. Sam admits his luck in dealing with the leviathans but does concede that five gankings is a pretty good effort. And although Dean is still restless with adrenalin, and is feeling his fortune, he doesn’t want to think or talk about either because he simply remembers Elle in the hands of monsters. All that’s left for him to share would be the pulsing desire to be violent like never before, not a comforting topic for anyone.

They do, however, try to figure out Crowley’s behaviour, guessing that he’s either jealous of someone, thanks to his relatively new found human feelings, or is confused about how he feels and tried being an asshole just to feel ‘normal’. In the end, though, they’re not confident about anything.  
“He does have a soft spot for you Dean,” Sam nods, finishing off his drink.  
“Which is crazy, considering you’re the one who almost saved him,” Dean says, shaking his head.  
“I don’t think he’d call it saving,” Sam corrects.  
“Well, I don’t know him well enough to say,” Elle adds, “but the whole encounter was full of ‘How dare they’. The man has issues.”  
“Amen,” Dean toasts and finishes his own drink too.  
“So how well do you think you got away with it?” Elle asks.  
“Pretty well,” Sam reckons, “As well as usual.”

“I was thinking," Elle offers, "is it a completely stupid idea to show up for the investigation? Not that you need to check up on loose ends much, but if you are likely to be recognised from tonight you could say you were there on FBI business or whatever, like a retroactive alibi. I suppose it would depend on the ones doing the recognising… and whether the real FBI will actually be there.”  
Sam and Dean look at each other. “That’s fucking inspired,” Sam laughs. “The real FBI are always late anyway; they let the foot soldiers do all the work first.”  
“Well, your suits are ready, if you still feel like it tomorrow. Today, I mean,” she says, looking at the bedside clock. “I think I’m ready for bed.”  
“Yeah, we should get out there early,” Sam says as they all stand up. “You did awesome tonight Elle. I was impressed.”  
“Thank you Sam,” Elle says. “It’s nice to know I did a good job, not just an adequate one.”  
“No really, you didn’t freak out on Crowley, and you handled the weirdness so well. Dean’s right about you becoming an asset.”  
“Aw, that’s another hug!” Elle says coyly and Sam bends on one knee to adjust for the height. His head rests against the bones of her chest, thanks to some slight over adjusting.  
They embrace, both heads turned towards Dean, Elle’s eyes closed and Sam’s wide open and smiling. “This is niiice,” Sam says, snuggling into her.  
“For the love of crap!” Dean groans loudly. Elle kisses Sam on the head, just because. Dean walks away and, for lack of a better spot, sits on the bed with his back to them. “You can both kiss my ass!”  
“I’ll see you later,” Elle says as they break it up, Sam waving a bye as he goes.

Elle approaches the other side of the bed to Dean and crawls on, admiring his form in a shirt and trousers. “Could you not be so intimate with Sam, please?” he asks tersely.  
“It’s not intimacy; it’s affection and gratitude,” she says to his back. “He works just as hard as you and gets a surly brother and no thanks. He _should_ get a hug a day. One a week is not a threat.”  
“It’s just…” he begins, trying to explain what he means.  
“Are you one of those guys who’re into owning their woman?”  
“No!” Dean reacts, and stands to face her, “No, Elle, you’re not mine like that.”  
“You really think I could be with Sam?” Elle asks, kneeling in the middle of the bed.  
“Well… you just seem better suited to him…” Dean thinks aloud. Elle is astonished. “Don’t look at me like that. Guys can be insecure too!”  
“No shit!” Elle agrees, “And dense!”  
“You guys talk so easily together, about anything. He’s kind and thoughtful and any woman would be worn down by such a nice guy just… being around.”  
Elle takes a moment to get over her surprise and finds a way to get to the point.

“Ghad, boys and their fucken emotions,” she breathes as she gets off at her side of the bed. She flicks off the main room light, leaving just the lamps on, props a pillow against the bedhead and pats in front of it, meaning for him to sit. As he finds his spot, she lies down beside him with her head at the foot of the bed, propped up on her elbows, her feet by his hips. “If you really want me to never touch him again, okay, I suppose. But we talk easily, Dean, because there’s no chemistry. He is a lovely guy – a fantastic catch – and I suppose, had I met him amongst any other circle I’ve known, I’d be distracted by him. But it wouldn’t have lasted. He doesn’t... you know.”  
“What?” Dean asks.  
“He doesn’t excite me like that,” she shrugs.  
“Well… he would if he tried,” Dean says, running his hands over her feet. “Those puppy dog eyes get all the knees wobbly.”  
“If he tried? He’s not interested in screwing either of us, Dean. If that’s what it comes down to you really have nothing to worry about.”

Dean frowns at himself, hand rubbing his forehead. He feels foolish and indignant and sorely regrets not thinking ahead and skipping the conversation altogether.  
Elle tries one last tack. “Would you mess with a girlfriend of Sam’s?”  
“No!” Dean looks at her earnestly, “I’m no asshole…” and he shakes his head coz he shoulda seen that coming.  
“You’re a nong,” Elle says, nudging her foot into his hand, asking for a rubbing.  
“A what?” Dean squints at her, while he takes the hint. He runs his thumbs up the middle of her arch, up to the pad of her big toe, and Elle drops her head and shoulders back as she lets out a long groan at the wrenching pleasure.  
“A nong! A dill, a dingbat, a silly billy. A great big duffer,” she smiles.  
Dean peers at her and realises she isn’t going to play it against him. He drops his embarrassment, and rests against the bedhead. Elle shuffles herself closer, Dean shifting a leg to give access, and she rubs her other foot along his hip.

“I’m thinking,” Elle says smoothly, reflecting on their conversation, “it’s been a big day. We can just do this if you like.”  
“Sometimes you move your mouth and it's noisy and all but I can't understand a word you're sayin',” he pinches the ball of her heel and she makes noises of appreciation. He collects the other foot and works on it a while too, soon working them symmetrically.  
“I just didn’t want you to think-”  
“Do me a favour?” Dean asks quietly, Elle yeahing in response. “Take that gorgeous dress off?”

He lets her feet onto the bed as she shimmies the layers up her legs, then lifts her hips to bring them further, not realising she gives him a straight line of sight down her thighs to her chin. She lowers he hips and arches her back to pull the fabric up to her shoulders as far as possible, and then slides it over her chin, her head, and drops it off the bed.  
Dean slips his hands into the backs of her knees and slides them down her calves, down her small neat feet and looks at her form. “These are perfect. Your legs, damn Elle, your body … I am one lucky sonofabitch.”  
“Not luckier than me,” Elle winces at the cheesy response and pops up on her elbows again, “Aah, sorry, I don’t really know what to do with compliments like that. ”  
“Don’t worry, you’ll get practice,” he grins and kisses her inside her ankle. Elle bites her bottom lip, as he starts kissing up the inside of her leg, “Aw shit,” she whispers, “this isn’t going to end well.”  
“Shaddup,” he mumbles into the softness of her knee, “I’m talking.”  
“God,” she says, falling back down. Elle decides to close her eyes and wait for whatever happens.

She feels his lips trickle up her thigh, his shirt grazing her skin. He hums and groans around her underwear and pulls the hem down a little with his teeth to kiss what’s beneath, Elle swearing under her breath. He keeps travelling up, his attention getting wetter, messier, bitier as his body matches hers. He crawls his arms up beside her, lapping her up, her fingers sliding over the valleys of his forearms and legs shifting for his shape. As he reaches her neck, in the shadows he can’t see the yellow pre-bruising spots. She flinches when he eats at her there.  
“Sorry,” she says quickly, “it doesn’t really hurt, I just forgot that was there.”  
“I’ll fuckin’ wring his neck when I see him next,” he growls.  
“Eh, I’m sure there are worse things he’s done,” she says calmly.  
Dan's mind runs over Crowley's recent manipulations, not to mention his whole history. Summing it up is too hard.  "He's a stain. Someone's got to smack him for it.  And all the others like him.”  
“Hence, the job.”  
“Hence… I mean I know, believe me, I was ready to burst into flames… but that’s how I feel around you most of the time,” he purrs, gunning for a kiss.  
“Aw, nice segue!”  
“Yeah? Smooth?” he asks, lips already touching.  
“Seamless.”

He kisses, and kisses and they taste the residue of a tense few hours – sweat, metal and whisky. He licks at her lips, asking for more access, and Elle kisses him back openly and encouraging. Dean leans into her and drags his hand down her side, scooping up her backside and breathing her in. He ducks his fingers under the pantie hem to hold her cheek. Elle wrenches her arm back so she can undo her bra and slips it off too.  
He pulls her back a minute to look at her figure in the crappy lighting of an old motel room. “Damn… Goddam,” he breathes.  
“Ugh, my poor ego,” Elle shakes her head, “You’ll ruin me for all others.”  
“There’ll be no others,” Dean says automatically as he dips down for another kiss. But, as soon as it’s out, he regrets the ominous comment. They stare at each other over their locked lips.  
“I don’t think I’ve ever fucked up an evening more,” he grumbles.  
“I can’t imagine anyone doing a worse job,” she agrees.  
Dean wraps his hand behind her neck, leaning on that elbow, trying to get a face-full of anything soft while he moans and swears over all the dopey things he’s said so far.

“Could I just…” he comes up for air, looks her in the eye, “could I just make love to you, please. Show you what I mean.” He looks at her mouth and leans in for it, ignoring Elle’s frozen reaction.  
“You don’t have to say such things just to fix the day.”  
“It ain’t hard to say, baby. Ain’t hard to say at all,” he says softly, and kisses her with eyes open, letting her see he means it. He works his way around to her jaw line, holding her head and her waist so warmly. Elle stares at nothing, trying not to over think his words.  
“Okay,” she says eventually, “if you think making love to me is something you should do…”  
“I do,” he confirms. As he kisses and tastes her, he takes her hand and puts it on his chest, leading her to the buttons. She undoes each one and pulls the shirt from his waistband. Their actions seem to hold a steady pace, no rushing, nothing frantic. He pulls his shirt off and Elle pulls up the singlet revealed, a little sad she won’t get to enjoy that happening a few more times. She still makes sure to catch how the muscles by his ribs work as he undresses.

He goes for the belt buckle, but Elle stops him. “Wait, this is a good look,” her hands feel his waist, pat down his chest and stomach. He smiles a little and waits a while. Once she smiles back, he finishes undoing the trousers and lets them fall, slipping out of them and kicking them off the bed. She wraps her legs around his waist and he eases over her. She begins pulling on his boxers, which he removes altogether and she does the same with her pants. Dean leans into her, taking in the fresh contact along their lengths, loving her softness and the way they slide over each other. He means to start off something physical and passionate but keeps coming back to her eyes and her expression.

Elle pushes him up a little and runs her hands down his torso again, up his arms. She runs the tip of a finger over his eyebrow and grazes his lips with her thumb. He closes his eyes to the niceness of it. When he looks at her again she seems to have something on her mind. What she wants is to return the favour of his honesty and generosity…  
“I think you are very handsome,” she says softly, making sure he understands she’s not mocking. “Very handsome. And very good... I couldn’t have planned a better man.” His eyebrows tilt under the strength of the compliment. “I feel like…” she searches for a way to explain the feelings she’s sure of. “I feel like you should be getting someone better than me… But you aren’t, so I’m working on it, on being as good as.”


	7. Brink

Dean is taken aback. “Elle, I don’t want you any different,” he thinks aloud. “I mean, be as good as you want to be, but… I can’t find a fault…” He waits. His instinct is to tell her he loves her, but his brains remind him it’s only been days and if she doesn’t believe him it would be disastrous. He knows she still needs reassurance about her situation.  
“Goddam,” she whispers, fighting back the emotion. Elle can’t help but think of all she’s letting go and what will be in its place, the risk of it, and the poor chances of success. She can’t sort out the exhilaration, fear and passion in her chest. It’s her whole life.

She runs her hands through his hair, brushes her thumb over his cheek, and blinks back what she’s feeling. At a loss of what to say, she holds his head in her hands and tries to keep her chin from wobbling. All she can manage is an “okay” but it’s’ shaky and breathless. When he feels his own eyes start to prickle in empathy, he tries to sweep it all away with a deep kiss and he simply keeps kissing her until she stops him.

This time she lets him know with her belly, pressing it against him and then sliding her limbs over him as though she’s oiled. Dean reaches down between her legs and works his palm against her. She breaks away from the kiss to get enough air for the moment. Elle kisses around his ear, darting her tongue and licking near his hair and when he flinches, his answer is to break into her folds, returning the tickle with his thumb on her nub. Elle gasps and whimpers in his ear, distracting him from everything. Dean eases a finger into her and her moan melts over him. Reaching down for him, she slides her warm hand over his skin, generously caressing the hardness, the softness and running her fingertips over the corners of what she feels. Dean presses his eyes closed and leans his head against hers. He replies with a second finger and Elle pulls in kind, working him in time.

Their breathing rolls together, Dean’s body rocking over her, but he can’t take the sensations and moves Elle’s hand away from him, her resisting. He pumps at her more deeply, thumb working her nerves and she lets him have his way, too distracted to do anything else. He kisses around her chest, over her breasts, under the shadows and then ducks down to suck on her clitoris. With one arm under her waist, he’s drinking from the bowl sideways and all she can do is fall back under the waves of sweet, licking ecstasy. He sucks harder, flicking, while reaching for depth, and soon her gasps are aching, rising, begging noises of mercy.  
Then, Dean gives one smooth lick, and rests her with a gentle kiss before slipping on some protection. He’s almost sorry to have brought her so far before getting there himself.

Dean slides himself into her slowly, Elle pulling on him, unable to smooth her moans. He waits a moment, gauging her state. Easing out and in again, then once more, and she opens her eyes to him, seeming to have come back from the brink a little. He works steadily, deliberately, rolling through every angle. Elle moves along, checking herself to not race ahead.

He shifts his knees to kneel, pulling her along with him. On his lap it’s just different enough to tease her anew and she digs her nails in to steady herself. Dean brushes her hair with his fingers, arms holding her near, and kisses under her chin, along her neck. Unconsciously, she rolls her pelvis over him, sliding herself against his pubic bone and searching for pressure over her lips. Again and again she rolls and they find a rhythm that surges into their connection. Dean uses all his strength to keep her up as she hinges against him, Elle calling on her thighs like never before.

As they rock into each other, Elle’s fear and apprehension begins to slip away. She chooses, one more time, to let her mind be filled with the idea of a happy, possibly short, future with this excellent man and this intimacy. She keeps her mind on a wonderful sensation, and looks at him hoping to see…

Dean’s giving everything and watching how Elle is clearly enraptured in the moment, but she’s still troubled. He wants her freed from it, he wants her happy, and he wants her to know how much she means to him. He reaches out for her neck and gently pulls her towards him, not giving up the rhythm. He holds her backside to keep her steady and she grips his upper arms. He kisses her, giving with each thrust. _It’s worth it,_ he thinks, _for fuck’s sake, I should be man enough for this_.  
“Elle,” Dean pants onto her mouth, “I love you.” She looks at him, and he lovingly bucks into her again, Elle gasping in response. He goes on, slowing his action. “Forget I said it if you want, but I know I love you… I know it.” She watches him, thinking of how he’s throwing himself down for someone, again. “Okay?” he asks.  
“Okay,” Elle answers, nodding. He smiles gently, bucks into her again and whispers into her ear, “Let me love you.” This time she says it clearly and he can hear her smile against his ear, “Okay.” He holds her as close as he can, strangely content, and rocks into her still.

“Dean,” she whispers, “this feels too good.”  
“No such thing,” he argues, turning his head to kiss her on the cheek. “Alright. You ready?” he jeers, nudging with his nose “I’m gunna start loving you right now.”  
“Ha, rrreally?  Don't you tease me now,” Elle murmurs, as Dean lifts her hips a few inches. He slams into her and she cries out in surprise and pleasure. It’s so deep and so good, a perfect mix of pain and ecstasy, both of them moaning with each effort. Elle does her best to hold herself there as he goes a second time, and a third, almost holding her breath. On the fourth strike, and the fifth, they both gasp into a shuddering peak. They heave their chests, hands slipping over the sweat. Dean leans his head on her breast, kissing what he can reach. They hold on to each other and breathe.

Elle lifts herself a little and encourages him to fall back onto the bed. She rests on him, her head on his chest. Dean’s fingers absently brush her hair from her ear as they recover. Elle props herself up, straddling his hips and looks down at him. She runs her hands over his stomach, his collar bone, collects his hand and smooths down his palm, traces the lines. In her mind, she’s trying to collect the words that explain the condition of her feelings and how it’s all connected to hesitation and doubt and fear and everything she’s ever known but at some point her eyes land on his face, watching her and waiting, and she realises none of that matters because it doesn’t change the fact.  
“I love you,” Elle says. Dean smiles at her, an open and happy smile, and her heart fills with it.


	8. Identification Please

Elizabeth wakes a little, her face smooched into the bed and notices the curtain open a bit. Her sleep has been deep and messy. She snorts herself up, looking for Dean, and finds him leaving the bathroom, all official looking and ready to go.  
“Morning beautiful,” he greets.  
“What? Who are you talking to?” Elle says, propping herself on an arm. She looks under the other pillow, “Is Sam here?” She’s squinting at him through one eye, still breathing deeply.  
Dean walks to her, leaning over for a kiss. “Darlin’, the morning-after mess is always sexy,” he says as he reaches down her waist under the covers. Elle threads her hands inside his jacket and pulls on him to join her.  
“You should sleep,” Dean says, taking her hands, “take advantage of it.”  
“Mmm, give me something to dream about?” Elle pleads, and he raises an eyebrow, a glint in his eye.  
“Think about the kitchen bench. It’s a good height,” he murmurs into her ear.  
“Hmmm, s’pose it’s a start,” she pouts. “You should think about me bent over that bench.”  
“Ooooh shit,” he leans on her a little, “c’mon baby, don’t do that to me.”  
“Oh you’ll be okay,” Elle says and pats his cheek. She lays down and rolls over to show off her naked back. “Off you go.”  
“Sonofabitch!” Dean groans. “You’ll get yours.”  
Elle cracks a ripping fake snore and “ninganinganinganinng” comes from the pillow.  
Dean collects his FBI ID from the kitchen and before he runs out the door, smacks her square on the backside, a loud “ _Ow_! Bitch!” following him out the room.

Later, Sam and Dean get out of the Impala and approach the benefit venue, looking for the grumpiest looking uniform on site. “Them!” they hear and turn to see a man lunging towards them, two police officers following closely. “These guys! I saw them- I saw _you_ sneaking around last night!”  
“Officers,” Sam nods, “Sir, please calm down.”  
“I saw you,” the man says, getting his finger in Sam’s face. Sam frowns at him, but is patient. “You two were scuttling up the corridors and watching everyone. It was sneaky,” he sneers excitedly.  
“Scuttling?” Dean repeats.  
“Sneaky,” the man confirms, shifting his finger to Dean. Dean considers slapping him.  
The officers shift themselves to stand nearer to Sam and Dean than their accuser. Sam and Dean raise their hands to reassure. “Officers,” Sam says assumingly, pulling out his fake FBI ID, “we were here last night. We were checking some information that related to Mr Farrington and his dealings. But we left soon after his speech.” The three in front of him consider the explanation.  
“There was a woman!” the man remembers, “She danced with Farrington and then just _disappeared_!”  
“Yeah, she’s a damn good dancer,” Dean says, half to himself. Everyone looks at him. “What? All work and no play? Amiright?”  
The man seems unconvinced, but the police officers are. “Thank you agents,” nods the one closest to Sam. “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind?” he says and guides the informer away.

Sam and Dean cross the tape barrier and are met by what seems to be the most senior police officer there. “Morning officer. Agent Stone, Agent Vedder,” Sam says as they both flash their badges. Something falls from Dean’s ID wallet. As he picks it up he recognises Elle’s face on the card, but shuffles it back into his breast pocket with the wallet. “How’s your Saturday going? You seem to have an interesting case today.”  
“Thank God for coffee, hey? I’m Lieutenant Peterson,” she introduces. “Agents, it’s just plain peculiar. We’re sure there’ve been five homicides, but we’re not keen to finalise the, uh, condition of the victims.”  
“Your homicides aren’t dead?” Dean asks.  
“Oh no, we’re very sure they’re dead… it’s just,” she hesitates. “Just come and see.”

She leads them behind the building and into the bushes where Sam had dumped the goons’ bodies the previous night. “It’s grizzly and… odd,” she warns before pulling back the branch to reveal the four headless necks, oozing black goo.  
Sam and Dean practise their stunned and speechless faces, Dean putting the back of his palm to his nose.  
“What’s your initial assessment?” Sam asks.  
“Honestly? To wait for you guys,” she says, clearly baffled.  
“Huh. Well,” Sam makes a quick decision, “we’re going to have to call in a few more for this one I think. They’ll be here later today I expect. We got a call about a similar incident two counties over, so we’re going to go ahead to check it out, compare a few things.”  
“Okay,” Peterson shrugs, “I figure they gotta be taking a lotta drugs for it to do that to their bodies. Wouldn’t mind finding a few heads though.”  
“Yeah,” Dean nods, “it’s never neat, is it?”  
“You can say that again,” she laughs. Dean almost does but… eh.

They walk back to the Impala and as they climb back in Dean hands his ID to Sam. “Check that out will ya.”  
As they pull away, Sam opens it and Elle’s card falls out. “It’s Elizabeth’s,” he says. “God! She looks like a teenager!” He inspects both sides for information, noticing it’s slightly melted on one edge.  
“What is it?” Dean asks.  
“It’s called a keypass. Looks like some kind of generic ID.”  
“Why would she give me that?” he wonders aloud.  
“I dunno, maybe she thought someone should have something of hers,” and he puts it back in the case, handing it to Dean.

Upon getting back to the hotel, Elle is showered and dressed and the bags are packed. She’s reading at the table when Dean comes in.  
“Hey, everything go okay?” she asks, standing.  
“Yeah, it was perfect,” he replies and pulls her in for a kiss. _Damn,_ he thinks, _how nice is it to have someone waiting for me_.  
“What’s this?” he asks and pulls the card out of his ID.  
“Oh, I just,” Elle starts. “…I just thought there might be a time when you’d need to have some proof of me.”  
“Is it real?” he asks.  
“Yeah, it’s what people used to use for ID when they didn’t have a licence. I’ve been using it in hostels for key exchanges and things. Better than handing over my actual licence. So… I don’t really need it anymore.”  
“Okay… I guess,” Dean says, trying to think if there’s any risk to it being kept with his FBI stuff. “This photo is pretty special.”  
“Aw, go easy. I was seventeen,” Elle groans, grabbing one of the bags.  
“This is you at seventeen?” Dean laughs, “You wook adorwable!”  
“Fuck off,” she smiles. “I still had a lot of… youthful softness.”  
Dean laughs wistfully, “Oh man, if I had met you back then…”  
“Ugh, God I was so harmless. I’m betting you were every uniform’s nightmare.”  
“Pretty much,” Dean shrugs, nonchalant, “the ladies llloved it.”  
“Well, you would’ve had a hard time with me,” Elle says, trying to throw him off the debate, “I didn’t go for bad boys.”  
“Oh, but you actually would’ve, wouldn’t you?” Dean says, choosing to refer to their heaven-sent destiny. “It would’ve been a whole lotta fun.” He grins wickedly. Elle stops in the doorway and turns thoughtfully. She means to think of some cutting remark, but can’t: She’s just so charmed by that face.  
“My luck just keeps getting worse, doesn’t it?” Elle says ruefully, and heads out to the car.


	9. End of a Chapter

Days after arriving back at the bunker, news filters through of anther suspicious death. The Winchesters wonder if their work at the hostel is actually complete. They decide to don the suits again and head back to investigate, tie up any loose ends.

Entering the police station, Sam and Dean approach the counter and wait for a family before them. Both of them notice their accents as similar to Elizabeth’s.  
“She was in this town the last time we spoke,” a young woman says worriedly. “It’s the last piece of news we got from her. She said she would contact me again soon and she didn’t. She said she was staying in a hostel with a weird couple but we can’t find a hostel here. She’s always replied to us when we’ve said we’re worried. You know? She doesn’t stuff us around or do juvenile stuff. I mean,” the woman thinks, beginning to get upset, “we think she’s a missing person. We’re just not sure who else to ask.”  
“Of course, ma’am,” the officer says kindly. “We’ll help however we can. Let me get some information, okay?” He leaves them for a moment. Dean angles himself so he can see their faces a bit better.

The man of the group, in his 50s or 60s, looks pale and grim, as though his jaw is wired shut. His wife, Dean assumes, looks younger, but it may be from the tightness of the skin around her red eyes. The young woman is holding it together, but Dean suspects their search is going to end here.

The officer returns and says softly “You all should come take a seat.”  
They’re led to a nearby desk so that they can sit. Sam and Dean watch as, in less than a minute, they break down in tears at news that suggests the worst. They both catch the officer explain how the only hostel they know of, newly established and not listed online, was burned to the ground almost two weeks ago. That they know people perished there but, beyond the operators, evidence of other fatalities is sketchy. That they weren’t sure of accounting for tourists’ due to paper records being destroyed. Sam and Dean both know that the site was nothing but ash and charcoal.

Dean reaches inside his breast pocket and fishes out Elle’s ID from his wallet. He runs his finger over the melted edge. Without speaking to Sam, he pushes through the counter gate and slowly walks to the desk and the family.  
“I’m sorry, excuse me,” he says gently, “Are you the family of Elizabeth Henry?” They raise their eyes to him, the mother answering “Yes, that’s our Lizzy.”  
Dean’s heart drops. “I’m with the FBI. My partner and I had to do a check of that site after the fire. We found this and I… well, I think maybe you’re supposed to have it.”  
Elle’s cousin, Caroline, collects the card from him and stares at the picture.  
“It only confirms that she was there; she may still be alive,” he adds, unable to keep from giving them some hope.  
“And what? Homeless? Hiding?” Caz asks, “Taken?”  
Instantly, Dean realises that this outcome would be worse. If Elle wants to disappear, she would want to be properly gone, not have her family tortuously searching from someone they cannot find.  
“No, ma’am,” Dean squats in front of her, “people don’t torch places and kill others to cover a random kidnapping. I think she’s either perfectly fine or…”  
“Gone,” says the man, Elle’s uncle. His words are like a shuddering sigh. “She’s gone. Lizzie wouldn’t leave us wondering, not after all we’ve said in our messages to her. She’s just not there to read them.” And he holds his wife’s hand while they take in what they can.  
“I’ll leave you folks alone,” Dean mumbles, forgetting how to fake-FBI his way through these types of things. But he does catch Caz’s eye before he gets up. “I am deeply sorry for your loss.” Caz nods in reply and puts her hand to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes as they close.

Dean goes back beyond the station’s counter and realises Sam has been talking to another officer. Dean waits for him to wrap it up while he watches Elle’s family cry.  
“It’s not for us,” Sam reports, “Just a messy psycho. He confessed before they even left the scene.”  
Dean nods a grunt of acknowledgement.  
“So, what’s happened?” Sam asks him quietly.  
“It’s Elle’s family,” Dean replies, not shifting his gaze. “She’s left them.”  
“What do you mean?”  
Dean turns so he’s facing the wall, almost shoulder to shoulder with Sam. “Sammy, I think she used the hostel fire to fake-kill herself. I think she means for them to think she’s dead.”  
“Are you sure Dean? That’s huge! I mean, that’s...”  
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his forehead, “I’m sure. She knew exactly what she was doing when she left that ID in my wallet.”  
Sam breathes. “Poor Elle.”  
“I can’t even tell them how good she is, Sam, all that she’s done already. Give them something to be proud of, you know?” Dean says, dropping his shoulders.  
“I’m pretty sure they’ll know Dean,” Sam replies, patting Dean on the shoulder as he makes to leave to the station.

When the brothers get back to the bunker, Sam heads to his room, leaving Dean to find Elle. She’s in the library, reading through ratty-edges tomes, trying to figure out which bits are true and what is old wives’ tales. She’d had a small ball of tension in her belly she’d been trying to distract, ever since she knew they’d be going back to that job. It was unlikely, but she’d still wondered if paths might cross. Upon seeing Dean’s face she knew they had.  
“Elle,” he says sadly, and she stands to meet him. “We met your family at the police station.”  
“Oh yeah?” Elle says casually, nodding slowly. “How did that go?”  
He awkwardly steps towards her, as he speaks, watching her hands. He isn’t sure how to say what happened. “I gave them your ID,” he says gravely.  
“Okay,” Elle replies, and frowns her mouth hard to control her chin. “Thank you for that. I didn’t want to give you that job, you know… I just…”  
“Yeah, I know,” Dean covers for her, and steps closer, hands hesitating.  
“Um, I’m just,” Elle steps back, “I’m just going to take a minute or two, okay? Have a think. I’ll find you later... I won’t be long.” She smiles weakly and turns to go.  
“Okay… Elle,” Dean calls to her and she leaves, “You did the right thing!”

She quickly walks to her room, every fourth step a jog. She sits herself on the end of the bed, unsure of how to manage the moment. … _it’s worth mourning over, surely. I can’t just pretend nothing has happened… It doesn’t feel like nothing… If I just have a little cry, just once about each thing as it goes, then it shouldn’t pile up too much._ Elle sits there and lets her breathing stumble like a boat over choppy seas – rocking up, dropping down – chin wobbling and lips quivering as the tears fall down her cheeks. She whispers her apologies to her adoptive family, explaining to them, like an affirmation, that this is what needs to happen, and does her best not to replace them with guilt.

She pulls herself tight, legs pressed together and hands grasping at the edge of the mattress over and over, rocking herself through her quiet sobs. Elle says goodbye to so much, to seeing her home and the long gravel driveway; her job that she’d done so well; her high school friends, even Luke the perennial flirt; the local pub; to having a crack, to hacking it, to carn the Blues, to taking the piss; the local beach; the sunsets, the stupid heat and flippy weather; her country, her sister, her loving family, to belonging … goodbye to a perfectly whole and enriching life. She hopes she has enough tears for everything she might be letting go, and for everything to come, and she hopes that, very soon, she’ll be strong enough to not need tears at all.

Dean quietly waits outside her room, against the corridor wall, and listens to his love break her own heart for the greater good, his own going right along for the ride.

* * *

In the aftermath of Elle’s remorse, she rolled herself up to sleep on her bed. Dean had let himself in after a soft knock, confident she wasn’t actually sleeping, and that she’d say so if she wanted to be alone. He’d turned the desk chair around to face the bed and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees to take a good look at her. She looked sad, but not ragged or threadbare, and he was thankful. Dean had no doubt that her future would be a series of trials. For days he had wondered how the hell to counter that, how to keep himself above the rising tide of the Mark, or to even be present enough, to be the emotional ballast she’ll need against the tsunami of crap she’s going to face. _Maybe she’ll be stronger than I expect,_ he thinks. _Of all she’s shown so far, her glass is at least half full… and she’s really the least of my worries right now, thank god. But we’re just such a crap family for her…_ As Elle opens her eyes to him, he murmurs “I’m just here, in case you need me.” She watches him lean back, cross his ankles and his arms. She runs her eyes over him, her own personal sentinel sitting in an uncomfortable chair, and notices his slow blinking. “You going to comfort me with your gentle snore?” she asks, “I won’t hear you over there,” and she reaches out to him.  
Dean reaches out too, collecting her hand as he crawls onto the bed, and spoons himself behind her. When he strokes her hair and kisses her head, she’s twists around to kiss him properly.  
“You look beautiful… for a dead chick,” he joked.  
“You seem so normal… for a necrophiliac,” she replied.  
“We’re just misunderstood,” he pouts thoughtfully. “…It’ll get easier, much easier, from here,” he says, smoothing her hair from her face, “Not having to think about your family will be a load off.”  
“Yeah,” Elle nods, “I think I’m going to be sad about it for a while, though. I haven’t any practise with this sort of thing.”  
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he replies, “Babe, you do this however you want.”  
“You shouldn’t worry though,” Elle says, cupping his face with her hand, “You don’t have to fill that hole. That’s not your job, okay? You are special to me but separate to that. And you can’t possibly sub for all else that’s gone. You just can’t. Don’t you dare try…,” she says, beginning to break again, “Just be you …for me.”  
“As you wish,” he answers, and kisses her eyes before embracing her warmly, kissing her deeply and gently, trying to transmit all the devotion he has.  
They settle into a comfortable embrace. Elle blows her breath through pursed lips, trying to hold fast to her promise about crying and get over that bridge. With his arm as a pillow, she falls asleep to the sound of Dean comforting her with what she needed to hear. “…It’ll work out… I’ve gotcha… Sammy and I got you… Cass too, okay? …you’re with us… I love you… I got you…”


End file.
